


Tender (up the wolves)

by ConcerningConstellations



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Anxiety, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, But he isnt perfect, Canon? I dont know her, Changing POV, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fear, Gabriel does something right, Gabriel is a Good Man, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I have drawn maps for this AU i'm in too deep, Inner Dialogue, Jack Is not a Bad Man, Jesse is a Saint, Jesse is his Idiot Son, Jesse is proud of him, Kid Angela, Kid Fic, Kingdoms, Morality, Other, Overwatch Is Flawed, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Politics, Recovery, Slave!Angela Ziegler, Slavery, Swords, This Aint Your Momma's Lore, Trauma, Warning: Mentions of Abuse/Slavery, Whump, Young Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, again!, characters are prone to development, i think, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConcerningConstellations/pseuds/ConcerningConstellations
Summary: It was hard, he knew, to come to terms with the fact that some battles couldn’t be won, no matter how much guts and good intentions you threw at them. That heroism only got you so far before you became a madman, or a martyr. You save what you can. You hope it’s enough.-Gabriel Reyes and Jesse McCree have a mission in the last slave city of the modern world. It goes well, all things considered.What happens afterward is still a matter of debate.
Relationships: Jesse McCree & Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Jesse McCree & Reaper | Gabriel Reyes & Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, No Romantic Relationship(s), Reaper | Gabriel Reyes & Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 20
Kudos: 30





	1. I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! so, just a quick update on things...
> 
> odds are this will read differently than my other pieces. i've come to realize that the reason writing has become difficult for me is because i have a habit of stressing over what people will think of the final product, instead of actually enjoying the process of creating it. i have been trying to fix this. to balance the crave of validation with the peace that comes from writing, primarily, for myself. 
> 
> this is NOT a complaint of the wonderful feedback i've received on any of my works, but a commentary on my current state of mind when it comes to writing for an audience, and perhaps an explanation for my absence. any comment left on a fic of mine means the world, and the last thing i want to do is devalue that!
> 
> regardless, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it. it's a bit more out-there than the rest of my fics, but hey. why not?

The kingdom’s name was Glaswren. The man’s name was Lance. 

Glaswren was one of the oldest established walled cities on the eastern continent, built partially in the evening shade of Mount Miria, surrounded on all sides by a desert so vast the denizens had taken to referring to it, almost fondly, as the Swallow. Its buildings were stacked low and dense, sandstone and white quartz bricks laid in the walkways between, slips of sun-bleached fabric hung above in an effort to mitigate the heat. They cast colored shadows, dappled reds and indigo. Beneath them the merchants yelled, and the disillusioned entrepreneurs, and the dirty children who offered flowers and stolen trinkets from the crook of their arms, asking in their native language for a coin, a kind favor. The kingdom was large and the courtyards were always full, well-dressed showmen auctioning off jewels and precious ores mined from just outside the city walls, rubies, onyx statues, _seventy gold from the gentlemen in a back, going once— twice— sold_. Fine metals, pretty gems that the women paid fortunes for across the North Sea. It’s nearly their largest export, here. Nearly.

Lance was dead. Gabriel had seen to it personally, not wanting to linger. 

It would be them to be sent here, he reflected that morning, the blood wiped from his hands and the rag tossed to the back of the hearth, where it popped and hissed and sputtered into steam. The contract was easy, and the pay was standard, and the mark was ever clueless in his bathrobe, dead instantly as the bolt entered through one side of his skull and exited the next. _Arms dealer_ , Morrison had told him back then, all those weeks ago in Gibraltar. _Bad as they get._

_Boring_ , he had muttered back, not saying what he wanted to, too tired, too sick of the righteous sentiment that clung to the man like spoiled perfume. 

_Glaswren_. For god’s sake. 

“Boss?” Jesse walked with him through the afternoon haze, handsome as always in his leather armor and boots, a holster hanging from one hip. He hadn’t talked much since Lance’s body had gone cold and was hidden, and even now, his drawling tone was tempered back with reluctance.

Gabriel grunted, spared the kid a glance.

“We gonna talk about it?” 

He almost laughed, felt the ambition sputter and die somewhere in his chest, a flame without enough kindling. _We don’t need to talk about it. You should know by now, Shooter— there’s no peace in clarity, these days._

“No,” he said instead, pushing his way through the crowds, trusting his protégé to keep up. In front of them, a wagon had been shoved to one side of the walkway, a wheel being hammed back onto its axel, wood and wrought iron gleaming in the sun. The pair of horses hooked tight to the stirrups whined, fine beasts meant for daily trips out into the Swallow, all dark hooves and sleek coatings. The driver hissed under his breath as his finger slipped under the mallet, stepping back to shake out the hand. 

The wagon had a cage built into the back, big enough for livestock, covered partially with a tarp. Gabriel avoided looking at it, shoved his way past.

“It was too simple,” Jesse insisted, hot on his heels. He was growing anxious, impatient— Gabe could tell by the way he kept a hand on his belt, tilted his chin down and to the side, looking only with his eyes.  


“It was easy,” he said, ignoring the call of a vendor trying to sell him silks and incense. “That’s all.”

He heard the kid scoff, run the heel of his hand against his cheek, the stubble there making noise against his skin. This place was getting to him. He didn’t sleep last night, no matter how well he pretended to. 

“Since when do we do easy?” he said between closed teeth, half to himself, half not. Gabriel watched him for a moment, hazel eyes darting left and right, tense as a string with lines drawn between his brows. Somewhere out of sight, a man yelled, and laughed. A baby began to cry.

“We don’t,” Gabriel replied. And again, Jesse fell quiet.

It was his first time here, and Gabriel had tried to prepare him during the week of travel. But there’s only so much you can brace for in the world. Only so much advice you can give someone when it comes to numbing yourself, staring right into the face of a vindictive reality and pretending not to notice. And Jesse was always soft. Always grinning something sly and hopeful, even when the blood was pouring out from between his fingers, winking at the women as Gabriel helped him struggle to the nearest cleric.

Glaswren had a way of taking the tenderness out of people. People like Jesse. People like him, once.

They turned a corner, heading back to the inn. It would be their last night before retrieving their mounts and heading back across the desert, back to where Jack and Ana and Reinhardt would be waiting, ready to hear about the job, to not speak about why Blackwatch was sent instead of them, with their capes and their insignias, all polished and pretty and pure. _Heroes_. As if.

The crowds thinned, the sunlight stinging at the back of his neck. The heat had gotten beneath his armor and vest, had settled into his bones, sand tangled between his eyelashes. He ran a hand across his forehead, thought longingly of the ocean, of the cool salty breeze that waited for him back home, the tall grass between their base and the shore. 

“Thinking about stealing that damn boat Torb keeps tinkering with. Take her out for a day. Throw out some lines, see if she actually floats.”

It’s sloppy. Gabriel was never one for comfort, for padding. He was always calloused and blunt and cold, but today he will make an exception, will distract them both, will commit himself to an afternoon of seasick fanfare if that meant easing the weight of this place, even for a moment. It’s what he would have wanted, the first time he was dragged here. A reminder that the world was wider than between these walls.

Jesse did not reply. They walked, the minutes slipping past.

“You’re always telling me how good you are with a hook and sinker,” he explained after the silence, almost defensive, already regretting this.“Don’t play modest with me now, soldier.”

Nothing. Frustrated, Gabriel turned to look him in the eye— and he would have, certainly, if the man was there to begin with. Instead he found thin air, his own shadow sprawled against the quartz and cobble.

Stunned, he looked left, right, behind him. There were only a few lingering merchants in sight, a couple of youths picking through the gutter. 

“Shit,” he said to himself, reaching to feel the great sword at his hip, a capable instrument, its hilt familiar in his hand. “Jesse? McCree!”

He went back the way he came, looking between the buildings, peering into alleyways so narrow the light could not find its way in. There was only the occasional stray cat, pieces of parchment that had sagged from the walls and fell into a heap. Saints help him, he had _one fucking job._

Street by street Gabriel retraced his steps, his garb clinking gently around his shoulders, the studded leather and steel begging for a fresh cleaning despite his efforts last night. Annoyed, he pulled at one of the straps, the bracer on his arm tightening in response. There was a time he didn’t care to wear the breastplate and wristguard in public, but the discomfort, he had found, was more than worth the peace of mind that came with two inches of metal between any blade and your heartstrings. He’d suffer the heat, the meticulous hours of polishing, if it kept him alive. Gladly.

A handful of filthy streets later, he came to stand at a familiar intersection, staring down each road for a length of time before deciding, finally, that if the recruit hadn’t yet managed to waltz into an early grave, he might do the honors himself.

Despite his efforts, his eyes lingered where the wagon with the cage had once been. He could see tracks there, pressed into the shallow film of sand that coated every available space in this kingdom, the lines heading deeper into the city, back into the tangle of people.

“… Damnit, kid,” he whispered, looking once more over his shoulder, the habit flaring up as the blood began to throb in his ears. Carefully, after forcing the grip on his weapon to relax, he trudged forward, ignoring the pitching sensation that was beginning to bloom in his chest. It was a cold, knowing ache that he couldn’t find a name for, reaching up into his throat, pressing at the back of his eyes. His skin was raw where the air touch it, damp, brushed with goosebumps.

The tracks got muddled and half-lost under people’s footprints, but there were only so many streets a cart that wide could fit down, and only so many places it could go to hand off its cargo. He and Jesse had passed a few such destinations, always crowded, always unapologetically apparent, smelling of sweat and old coins. Gabriel never let them pause to look closely. There was no point to it— no sense.

But not now. Now, he could hear it, that telltale chanting of numbers, the shouts of protest and elation, metal moving against metal, hinges in need of oil. Someone was working a gavel. Exhaling, he picked up the pace, demanding that the pounding in his chest settle, that the ringing in his ears cease. Be calm. Be numb.

One more corner, and he saw it, backed into a low, wide building, a modest number of people pressed into a half-circle around a raised platform, similar to those that were used to display and sell jewels. They were shouting bids over one another, some of them seeming bored, dressed in crisp fabrics and leathers that clearly came from across the sea. Others were drinking on the outskirts, marking down prices on slips of tanned parchment, conferring quietly with one another as final verdicts were marked and tagged. The wagon was parked nearby, empty.

On stage were four people. One of them paced back and forth, grinning in his padded vest, his spectacles dirty with grime and flaring in the light. He held a scroll in one hand and a cane in the next, made of ivory and gold. He was short, and stout, and rather unnerving with his charisma, holding the crowd’s attention with little effort, a conductor of eyes, a persuader of ears.

Two were city guards, male and female, donning in their steel and bronze uniforms with sheathed blades peeking out from one shoulder— more for show than anything else, Gabriel knew. They had soft faces and thin hands. Their armor was stiff, gaudy. 

The last of them was a man dressed in nearly nothing, his hands chained behind him as he kneeled on the stage, peeking out with dulled, darkened eyes as the crowd studied him. He had a bruise across one side of his face, his frame thin and weathered, sunburnt in more than a few places. He looked no older than twenty. He said nothing as the others called out and pointed.

“— secondhand and for a good price, he’s strong, he’s keen, he knows how to work a pick better than anyone that’s graced this stage today! Opening bid is one-fifty gold, maxing out at seven even. Do I hear a one-seventy?”

The man in the vest spoke loud and clear and smiled all the while, prancing upstage, rattling off numbers as the crowd responded in turn, _one-eighty-five_ straight to _two-hundred_ , then _two-twenty_ , and on and on and on.

Jesse waited for him there, removed from the masses but still observing, arms crossed and face pulled into an orchestra of emotion— grief, hatred, exhaustion. He didn’t so much as turn to face Gabriel as he approached. Didn’t flinch when he spoke, his frame taught, his jaw set.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Gabriel muttered, looking only at him, ignoring as the auctioneer called out once more to the audience.

Jesse scoffed, smiled briefly in some twisted, shaking fashion that devolved quickly into a grimace. He touched his face, sneered into his palm. “With me? With _me?”_

Brown-green eyes bore into Gabriel’s, the light stolen from them by that damned hat Jesse loved so much, the lines of his face harsh and unforgiving. Carefully, Gabriel stepped closer, tried and failed to grab him at the sleeve.

“Don’t touch me,” he demanded, though he didn’t move away. “Don’t act like all of this isn’t fucked.”

“Of course it’s fucked,” Gabriel hissed, his voice pitching as the anger seized him without warning, his patience wearing thin. He let the air out his lungs, demand it not shake. “Why do you think we’re here, not them?”

And for what was not the first time, he pictured it: Overwatch in Glaswren, in the last slave city of the modern world, marching with their banners and their shinning armor down roads laid brick by brick by a people with no pay just as many rights. Though, the vision was blurred and flimsy— as if Jack would ever be daft enough to let any of his soldiers within a mile of the kingdom walls. Not when Blackwatch was there to do the dirty work for them, all hushed up and quick.

“I don’t understand,” Jesse said, the rage turning to regret. “How is any of this sanctioned? How come Morrison doesn’t storm the place, burn all this down?”

On stage, a final price had been named, the ivory cane hitting the wooden platform as its wielder sang, “Sold!” They watched as the young man in chains was lifted to his feet and walked off to the side, where a man and woman stood pleasantly, trading coins.

Gabriel looked down. Tried to summon the words in a way that could make this bearable, though they sounded gruff even to his own ears, indifferent.

“It isn’t so simple, Jesse.”

“Seems like it to me.”

“Glaswren,” stated the older man, “Is the only reason the economy hasn’t turned itself upside down on the east continent. Its laws are older than ours, and whatever skills its people lack with any blade is more than made up for by their talent for talking. They’ve lived in a loop for the past ten centuries— infinite labor, a rich earth, a needy market. Overwatch can’t change that. Neither can you.”

A commotion, the crowd parting as a new specimen was shoved up the steps and onto the block. This time it was a woman, her features native to desert tribes, dark hair and golden skin that was hardly covered by threadbare clothing, torn and stained. She looked around at the dozens of eager faces, eyes wide, lips chapped raw. The bidding started again. To his side, McCree made a noise like an animal backed into a corner, all naked teeth and narrowed eyes.

“That doesn’t make it right,” he seethed, turning away, his hand resting on the worn grip of his pistol; a true rarity on this side of the ocean. His knuckles were white. Gabriel could see tobacco tucked under his nails from this morning— there is the memory of him framed by a threshold, taking his time with the nicotine and the little paper rectangle, rolling the smoke gently between his fingers and bringing the finished product lovingly to his lips, patting down his pockets in search for a stray match.

“… No,” conceded Gabriel, eyes lingering to the commotion on stage, the man with the walking stick taking the woman by the hair and forcing her face up, smiling in a way that was not cruel or sinister, but good-natured, helpful. _Good drive, this one— no training needed. A pretty face for a low fare, that’s right, just three-hundred gold to get us started. Four-hundred! Four-fifty— can I hear an even five?_

“They preach so much ‘bout freedom— ‘bout _justice_.” Jesse scoffed, wild with discontent. “But it’s all bullshit. It doesn’t matter, does it? If there’s this in the world, people being bought like… like fuckin’ cattle.”

Gabriel knows this. But hearing Jesse say it isn’t nearly as satisfying as he’d imagine it would be. It was like watching a final candle burn out, lapse into smoke, disappear into the dark.

“Listen. Kid.” Again, he reached for Jesse’s shoulder, managed to get a good hold this time around. He turned them both so that their backs were to the auction, felt his free hand drift up and motion empathetically. “I understand— it’s shit. But it isn’t up to us. Some things… they just can’t be helped.”

Jesse scoffed again. Muttered something under his breath and resigned himself to a shrug, looking at neither him nor what laid ahead, eyes fixed at the steel toes of his booths. 

“Job’s done,” he explained, shaking the younger man slightly. “We did something good here, and now we’re going to go do it somewhere else. Focus on what we can change, forget the rest. Trust me.”

He squeezed, watched as his charge took the words and rolled them over, picked them apart piece by piece.

“I dunno,” murmured Jesse, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m— I’m right sorry for running off. I just…”

Gabriel grunted, shifted in his armor, let his touch retract and fall. “I know. Me too.”

Again, the lull was broken by the cane crashing down against the stage, signifying that a final verdict had been reached, that the coins were to be exchanged and the woman was to be sold. Jesse shrunk. 

“Next up,” called the man on the stage, “A foreigner, saved from the ruins of Halden, all the way across the far boundaries of the Swallow. Ready your bets, ladies and gentlemen!”

“Let’s go,” persuaded Gabriel, nodding to the open road ahead, towards the privacy and peace of their inn, were the crowds and moral carnage couldn’t reach. At first, he thought he would have to push harder, but Jesse just dipped his face, let his arms hang slack as the protest leaked out of him. 

“Fine,” he whispered, wiping at his nose, tilting his chin up to study the blue sky, the relentless sun. He shook his head, said it again like he needed to hear it clearer: “Fine.”

Jesse took the lead, cape billowing, casting a wide shadow. Gabriel followed close behind. 

It was hard, he knew, to come to terms with the fact that some battles couldn’t be won, no matter how much guts and good intentions you threw at them. That heroism only got you so far before you became a madman, or a martyr. You save what you can. You hope it’s enough.

He didn’t realize it had grown quiet until the hushed voices arose behind him. The crowd spoke low and hasty as a guard moved to collect the next slave, cushioned by the sound of coin purses being gathered, the creaking of wood and metal. On stage the bespectacled gentlemen laughed something light and approving, a noise that didn’t sit well with Gabriel, that sent a chill down his spine despite the midday scorch. A sour taste pressed against his palate, bitter like blood, like ash.

Even now, it’s unclear what compelled him to look back.

There was the crowd, perched and waiting patient in their silks and gloves— and there was the block on which the auctioneer performed so effortlessly, bathed in sunlight and sand— and there were the armored twins, coming to stand together once more, the ornaments of their uniform clinking together like wind chimes— and there, on her knees between them, was a girl.

She wore no chains. Most likely because her wrists were too small to be held by any manacle, if the wire-thin structure of her legs and waist were any indication. Instead, her arms were bound behind her with rope, shoulders hunched unnaturally, a dry, gasping sound struggling out between her lips. She was dressed in an oversized shirt that offered hardly any sense of modesty or protection from the elements, and her hair, grey with grime, was loose in front of her face. 

Gabriel felt his legs stall, then stop entirely. 

She was small. She was young.

“Friends,” began the man on the stage, stalking from one side of the audience to the other, eyes brushing over the scroll in his hand, “If you’re looking for exotic, then look no further. Our company found this rare flower in the wastelands up north, where the war was thickest not two winters ago. Plucked from the wreckage and saved from sure starvation, this one is proved to be a fighter, a hand in the house or the fields. She’s well mannered, trained to—”

For the first time since he had arrived, Gabriel heard a voice from the crowd call out, interrupt with ease.

“Looks thin. Mighty small. Couldn’t lift a pick if her life depended on it, I’d wager.” The voice was flat and impersonal, followed by a series of sympathetic murmurs, knowing glances.

“… Boss?” 

He hardly felt Jesse brush his shoulder, move to stand beside him. “What’s happening?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t avert his eyes from the stage, aware of the pulse throbbing at the tips of his fingers, the adrenaline aching all along his veins. Something was wrong— with this. With him. 

“I can assure you,” the man answered, putting down his parchment and motioning with a hand. “Every product we offer is valuable, and this is far from an exception! Here, Bren, if you’d please…”

One of the guards grunted, moved an armored hand to the girl’s scalp and tugged hard at the strands, forcing her chin up, her hair falling aside. Her shoulders slumped as her throat was exposed, a slipknotted collar of rope revealed with it, obvious against her pale complexion. She gasped, eyes flashing. They were a sickly shade of blue. 

The man approached, motioning with the end of his cane, pleasant as always. “As you can see, the features are distinct— this is far from any half-baked con, sir. Now, if you’d rather keep her from the mines, there are a number of alternatives she’d be good for, certainly. She’s very competent. Knows how to read and write. Counting, too. Pretty thing could learn any chore with the guidance of a helping hand. Or serve as— pleasant company.”

More murmurs. The girl whined as the guard pulled harder at her hair, showing every angle of her face, a battered collection of frightened eyes and lips scabbed raw from what could only be dehydration. It was clearer, then, to see how the restraints around her wrist attached directly to her neck, a line of rope running taught between her shoulder blades. It tightened as her shoulders slumped, dug viciously into the skin.

And despite the hallowed cheekbones, the jutting jawline, the too-thin arcs of her calves and ankles— she was young. Younger than anyone else he’d seen condemned to that pulpit. Four-foot nothing, mere skin and bones, brown-red peeking into view at the corner of her nose as she was pulled back further and then let loose, slumping over, desperate for relief. She gasped;panting in the shadow of the preaching man.

To his side, Jesse exhaled, touched his hat. “Saints— how is this legal?”

Gabriel watched a moment longer, felt his head shake. Felt the fever sink deeper into his body and burn a hole there, where he was usually strongest, the muscles and sinew flexing and fuming and bursting open, molten hot, dripping down. “It’s not.”

“What?”

But he was already stepping forward, back towards the stage, towards the crowd and the man and the guards and the girl, only distantly aware of himself moving, as if in a dream. In front of him the masses were calling bids, much to the delight of the auctioneer, who smiled, stoking the flames.

“Three-eighty! Can I hear four-hundred, ladies and gentlemen, can I get— yes, you in the front, four-hundred! Four-fifteen… fifty! Four-fifty from the lovely lady in green, four-hundred and fifty gold—”

He pushed his way to the crowd and then pushed his way past them, the scent of copper and bottled greed, bangles and important pendants, embroidered sleeves pinched closed by diamonds. The stench of these people all around him. The men with rapiers at their side and no callouses on their fingertips. The women who smiled so prettily, counted out the slips of silver and gold into one smooth palm, leaned into their husbands and whispered. 

Glaswren had a way of taking the tenderness out of people. But not the ambition. Not the rage.

His legs stopped at the foot of the stage, the merchants chirping excitedly to either side of him, Jesse struggling to keep up. He was closer, now. Mere yards of distance between them. Her jagged ribs were clear, her bare, bruised legs, the frenzied look in her eyes glazed over and preserved.

“Five-hundred and _seventy—“_

The first time he asked the question, no one answered, his voice taken and turned indistinguishable by the chaos all around, the shouts, the coin purses. That was fine. Expected, even. 

Gabriel reached behind him. Found Jesse. Found the glossed grip of his four-barreled flintlock and tugged it free from the holster, quick as anything, ignoring as the boy protested and a few patrons turned their heads. 

He cocked the hammer back— readied himself for the recoil.

_Bang._

One shot was all it took, straight up, a cough of black into the atmosphere as the noise ricocheted off the buildings, seethed into the sky like thunder, an army of hooves. The people closest to him screamed, tripped over each other as they surged away, covering their ears. On stage the guards stood stunned, fumbling for their weapons, too slow to be an honest threat. The ringleader froze beside them, dropping his papers. It took a while for him to find his voice, to say the words with any proper sound behind them. 

“… What under the stars do you think you’re doing!” demanded the man, eyes locked onto the pistol, equal parts outraged and petrified. 

Gabriel shrugged. Lowered the barrel with an unimportant motion, the tip still smoking.

“Had a quandary,” he said, calmly, shoving the gun back into Jesse’s chest and resting his hand on Hellfire’s pommel, heavy at his hip. “You mind?”

“I— I—” The man looked from the sheathed sword to Gabriel’s face, mouth agape, warring to recall his smooth composure. “Sir, no firearms are to be _brandished_ in the marketplace!”

“Right,” conceded Gabriel, emotionless. “Sorry. Forgot.”

And, again, he asks, neither torrid nor tasteless, gesturing with a flick of the chin to where the child bent forward, sweat dripping down her nose. 

“How old is she?”

His voice is as clear as the gunshot this time around. He didn’t look away as the auctioneer narrowed his eyes, took the time to consider him more thoroughly, inch by inch, running the numbers, considering the odds. The pause lingered. The crowd grew vague and formless in its disposition.

“… Of course,” relented the man, speaking now in a goodnatured, apologetic fashion, summoning that white tilted grin. “How uncouth of me, sir. Thirteen years old, and growing fast! A few hearty meals and she’ll shoot up like a sprout, certainly.”

By the time the man finished he had turned back to address the masses, slipping so easily back into his previous skin, all wide, promising gestures and dazzling winks. The people buzzed, pleased. Gabriel fitted his jaw together, listened as behind him, Jesse shifted in his shoes.

He readied a reply. But it was another voice to break the lull, smaller, crackling as if rattling its way through a field of broken glass.

“I’m nine.”

The girl didn’t move as she spoke, eyes fixed to the wooden boards of the panel. She had an accent Gabriel only vaguely recognized, cut through with thirst, uncertain boldness. The rope around her throat tightened as she swallowed, growing stiff beneath the watchful eye of the bespectacled man, who had regarded her with a stern, severe stare— one that drove whatever reserve of resistance she had been keeping safe and harbored back out to sea.

All around, the murmurs and clinking went quiet, paused somewhere between aloofness and doubt, glancing at one another to gauge for an appropriate reaction. The armored figures onstage tensed, faces hidden behind the helmets. Some folk at the outskirts detached, wary of this trick, dipping knowingly into the alleyways.

Gabriel looked at the crumpled figure before him. Said the words a little louder; a little less civil. “If I’m not mistaken, the legal age of contraband to be traded in Glaswren must exceed twelve years. Else the company is dissolved, all stocks handed over to the city. _Sir_.”

The ringleader closed his mouth. Pressed his lips into a line, taking the measure of those around him, such fragile faith, fading slowly into disinterest. He tapped his foot, put out. Then, he laughed, fearless, charming.

The cane came down brutal and blinding, striking across the obscured face of the girl, a cracking sound that brought her flat to the floorboards, heaving.

Jesse hissed, surged forward. Gabriel felt something inside him shut down, run cold, tear up his spine and spread.

“She’s thirteen,” explained the man on the block, brightly as ever, gently shaking out the staff as if to rid it of filth. “And a bit of a liar, truth be told.”

Gabriel heard patrons grunt, even exchange a handful of smart words, laced with forced amusement. McCree was saying something into his ear, fingers digging into his arm, though he couldn’t make sense of any of it. He couldn’t feel himself breathe. Couldn’t feel the heat on his skin, the sand between his teeth, the dull pain that had begun to settle into his shoulder from the jerking pistol— he was never good with firearms, never one to play games with blackpowder— could barely even hear the man with the cane mutter _pick her up_ , the guards shuffling to life upon the command— all metal arms and golden capes, barely human under it all— lifting the girl by the ropes and forcing her back to her knees, a flare of red spreading into her hair, shocked into silence, the collar around her neck conjuring bruises. She is turned pliable, held up only by a single armored gloved. _Now, I believe the latest bid sat at five-seventy. Do I hear six—_

He blinks, and Jesse is gone, vaulting onto the stage. His hand is on his gun— still safe and loaded into its holster, three shots left— and his eyes are on fire. 

Scorched free of gentleness, he shoved the offending guard back, barked a warning, his hat lost in the chaos. “Get the fuck away from her,” he demanded, standing over the pale figure, paying no mind to the protests. 

It snaps Gabriel awake. He is moving before the second guard can draw her weapon, sliding into place, jumping up onto the platform and placing himself between his charge and the rest of them. He does not touch Hellfire. He will not need it.

“Arrest these men!” ordered the auctioneer, so much smaller now that they stood on even ground, waving his stick incredulously in their direction. His vest was missing its bottom button. He smelled of hay and dirty water, hardly hidden beneath expensive cologne.

“That wouldn’t be smart,” Gabriel said, eyeing the approaching guards with enough venom to make them hesitate. Jesse doesn’t move behind him, hair falling into his face, ready for war. Always too eager. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only criminal present.”

“Criminal?” echoed the man, amused. “I’m a businessman! You’re the one casting threats, charging my stage, assaulting my employers—” 

“She’s nine.” One mighty step forward, slow, intentional. The motion makes the stout man jerk back, stagger. “And you’re selling her."

“You’re wrong,” he said, forcing himself to righten once more, eyes darting from Gabriel to the crowd. “I’ve been in this business since before she was born— it’s my word against hers. A merchant from Glaswren, and a rat from nowhere. There is nothing for you, here. Now. _Arrest_ _them_.”

This time the two guards approached, holding their swords in position, advancing ever so carefully. They were unsteady. Children who knew they were straying too close to the fire; knew they would soon be burned.

There was the familiar creak of metal, of Peacekeeper being pulled and aimed, cocked back, ready to make a mess. Gabriel turned his face and found Jesse, knees bent, lips sneering, eyes honed as the weapon sat live in one hand. It was pointed at one of the soldiers, steady, willing.

And in that instant he saw the way it would end. Blood everywhere, their faces on fliers, Jack barking up a storm. _Keep it quiet_ , he had said, back in his sunny office, all glass and stone and radiance. _Keep it clean._

The older man stared mercilessly; spoke in a way he’s only done once, back in the beginning, when the recruit had done something rash and heroic and almost paid for it with his arm. 

“Put that away, boy.”

At first, there was no effect. Jesse trembled with the resolve, deadeyed and immutable. Unable to control himself, Gabriel felt his stare lower, fixing in on the girl that was sprawled and bleeding, shaking at every inhale like the air was having trouble getting down her throat. Scarlet came down from her hairline; stained her wrists where the bounds cut in. He couldn’t see her eyes.

Slowly, his charge shuttered out a breath, made room for the restraint, the wire-tight stance of stance readjusting as his arm lowered, the gun with it.

Gabriel nodded. Returned his gaze to the man across the stage, ignoring the guards, the perfectly sharpened blades. 

“This is what’s going to happen.”

He stepped forward, unafraid. The wind rose. The crowd grew silent and still.

“We’re going to take the kid. You’re going to pack up and leave. And if I ever see you again, I’m going to take that cane, and hit it over your skull, until one or the other breaks in half.”

One blade pressed against his spine, the next to his throat. He didn’t look at them. His eyes bore into the finely-dressed form of the auctioneer, watching him scoff, watching him think he was in control.

“And why,” asked the man, “Would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, and these fine soldiers arrest me, it’ll be _my_ word against yours. And that’s not something you’ll be able to talk your way around, trust me.”

“Your _word!”_ The merchant laughed, nearly delighted at the prospect. “And who in god’s name are you?”

“Commander Gabriel Reyes. Blackwatch personnel.”

An expected pause, the sound of Jesse sucking in a breath from behind. The ringleader twisted his lips, made a meaningless motion with his staff, lazy figure-eights. 

“I’ve never heard of you,” he informed, feigning an apologetic tone, someone who knew they held better cards.

“No,” Gabriel admitted, crossing his arms, the swords still hovering inches from his skin. If he looked he could see his reflection in the polished steel, all dark and uncertain, a shadow in a white room. “But you’ve heard of Overwatch. Haven’t you?”

He knows what will happen. He’s seen it before. But still, watching the fear wrap its way around the fat man contains a certain kind of pleasure he just can’t get anywhere else; that look of _check-mate_ , of all his pretty chips and promising gestures turning, slowly, to ash. His eyes go wide and bulge, hands freezing in place, mouth slowly pressing shut. The confidence and the conviction drain away, replaced quickly by a grey, ghastly complexion as he reels, tries in vain to recover, to seek the upper-hand, to turn to mist and disappear. The guards back away. The crowd shrinks as if he had summoned a column of fire.

“Yeah. There it is.” Gabriel walked forward, the blades letting him pass, trailing behind him almost as an afterthought. 

“Well— I’m worse. So, assuming either of us walk away from this alive, I’ll stroll over to your precious Council, flash a badge or two, say my piece. They’ll do anything to preserve whatever fragment of neutrality they’ve wedged between themself and my organization, you know. And I’m certain the moment I mention anything close to illegal activity, they’ll believe me, out of self-preservation if anything else. They’d call the calvary, if I asked them to. Place your pretty head on a pike.”

The men and women began to unstick from one another, no longer finding strength in numbers. They broke apart, fanned out in slow motion, some covering their faces. He is giving them a good show, now. Those that stay stay out of morbid fascination, artistic inclination, sheer nerve.

Jesse was moving out of his peripheral view, a beige-brown blur, whispering something too faintly to hear. Something flashed into his hand, small and sharp. The girl curled against the decking, sluggish beneath him, afraid.

“A-Alright,” said the man, softer now, as if it would help. He stood very still. Talked without moving his mouth too much. “Let’s— let’s speak as businessmen, sir. I will gladly part with— her.”

“You will,” agreed Gabriel.

The man nodded. Licked his lips. “For a— a _reduced_ fee, of course.”

There is no sound Gabriel could summon to memory more pleasing than Hellfire sliding free of its sheath, ringing out into the courtyard like a choir of angels, smooth and glasslike and splitting. It only took one hand to tug it free, not bothering with fanfare or flourishes. The dark sword settled, held straight with one locked elbow, its tip mere inches from the sweating nose of the merchant, who squealed, stepped back so quickly he fell.

The cane clattered down beside him.

It would be easy, he knew. One simple jerk, a knowing flick of the wrist, and the metal would part the skin of his neck, would let it all tumble free.

“Try again,” Gabriel advised, his voice changed somehow. Corroded. The words trickled their way out between his teeth like acid as he stood tall above the ringleader, a wolf and a rat.

The man’s throat flexed and bobbed, hands coming up in surrender, the blood driven from his face. He shook his head vigorously, in one direction and then the next.

“Free,” he said, breath hitching. “Just— take the bitch. Her and the papers. Free.”

His grip on the weapon tightened. He felt himself breathe, but something is lodged there, halfway between his mouth and lungs, burning a hole. 

“Easy… you’re okay. Stay still, darlin’.”

He turned his head a fraction, just far enough to see the silhouette of McCree bowed gently atop the stage, hovering above the trembling girl, a dagger held deft in one hand. As he reached for her, she flinched, tears flowing down one bared cheek, the other still digging hard into the wooden boards. She spoke a language he didn’t know, the words choked out and hoarse, clearly begging as Jesse’s form fell across her.

He lifted the rope from where it spanned up her back and fitted the knife between her shirt and the twine, working quick as her breath strained, using the serrated edge to saw through the bonds. Her shoulders came up, impossibly hunched. She shuttered.

_Snap._ With a rattling inhale the girl went absolutely limp, white lashes fluttering as the collar around her throat fell lax. Her chest heaved, hands sliding further down her spine. Jesse was already dealing with the excess rope there, still whispering soothing nothings, all his rough edges smoothed out. 

“Good job— I’m almost done, I promise.”

Hellfire dipped, the finely sharpened blade coming away from the merchant’s face. Gabriel held it at his hip, steadied himself, his free hand curling into a thoughtful fist.

“… What’s going to happen if I see you again?” he asked, barely audible.

He heard the merchant swallow. Begin to shake. “Y-You’re… going to kill me.”

Nodding, Gabriel used his foot to nudge the walking stick towards him, watched as it rolled across the panels before bending down to pick it up— heavy, balanced. A dark stain was half-dried at the end.

“That’s the short answer,” Gabriel said, flipping the staff in his hand, sparing the man one last long glare. “I don’t forget faces. And I don’t like yours. Remember that the next time you’re up here, selling kids, getting rich.”

No reply. Grunting, Gabriel sheathed his sword, rolled out his shoulders and turned, walking back towards his charge. He threw the two guards dry salute. 

“At ease, soldiers. Go play somewhere else.”

They shrunk away, and he left them there, blades out, robbed of bravery.

Jesse was still knelt beside her, fussing over her wrists, massaging out the bits of rope that had dug too hard into the skin and refused to separate. There was blood, bruises. She was pliable in his care, eyes fixated on an invisible horizon, dazed, exhausted, refusing to focus on anything for long. Even as Gabriel approached, her expression remained the same. 

Briefly, Jesse looked up at him, hands still working. They didn’t speak, but it was a little late for that, anyways.

“Time to go,” Gabriel muttered, looking left and right, knowing their luck was being tested. Word travels fast in a place like this. Faster than he would like. “Now.”

Jesse nodded, quickened his work. “Hey,” he said, dipping his head down, touching the child on the shoulder. “Can you walk? We’re getting out of here.”

The girl moved her eyes, blue-grey and bleary. She stared at him, blank. 

“It’s okay,” he promised. And for what was not the first time, Gabriel became aware of how well he wore this role, how easy he slipped into it, the gun and the hate and the war-ready sneer forgotten. He was holding out his hand, hard and calloused, undeterred when the motion caused the girl to jump.

“Come on.”

And, slowly, with the caution of an animal who had not been permitted outside its cage in a long, long time, the girl uncurled herself, limb by limb, and lifted her head from the floor.

Somehow, with no lack of hesitation, her fingers brushed his. He pulled gently, another hand at her back, and helped her stand. Gabriel watched as her muscles strained with the effort, legs coming beneath her to take her weight, her grip on Jesse going from uncertain to desperate.

“Good,” he praised, bringing her in close, leaving behind nothing but the strips of rope and drops of red. She wobbled. Glanced at Gabriel with an exhausted brand of wariness, the metal cane still tucked into his fist. 

He did not smile at her. He would wonder, later, why he found the task impossible, like pulling blood from a stone. He would find no answer.

Turning, he made his way down the steps, trusting them to follow, his footfalls harsh against the planks that bent beneath his stature. A woman tried to shove papers towards him, muttering something about his signature. Legal work. _Receipt of purchase_. He refused her with a low growl— a noise that belonged to something with a hunched spine and a temper— and she stepped aside, let him through to clear a path, glaring at anyone who took too long to move. 

He could hear them coming at his heels. Her feet were bare and her steps out of sync, a dance without a rhythm. Jesse stood guard before her, some sentinel turned soft, not protesting when she hid close to his leg and cowered there, keeping stride. Her eyes stay downcast, narrow fingers rubbing at the impressions left at her throat. 

They step onto the road. Leave the stage and the empty cart behind. And they walk, in no particular direction except _away_ , down the crooked alleys and quieting market places, retreating step by step into the cool recesses of Glaswren’s older neighborhoods, all closed shutters and evening shade. No one spoke. Not for a long time, each corner turned in silence, walking without the question of where they would stop or how they would proceed with this new development, the girl moving with them in a daze, being pulled gently from one street into the next. She offered no protests of her own. No pleas. Simply stumbled along, eyes wandering along the buildings, the cobblestone, the carts of wine and jewelry, Jesse staying close and constant.

The minutes stretched and spanned. The sun lowered itself, dived in slow motion towards the horizon.

Gabriel eventually broke the lull, paused beneath an overhang, not a soul left in sight. He spoke flat and to the point, turning on one heel. “Did you leave anything at the inn?”

Jesse shrugged. Ran a hand through his exposed hair. “Nothing I couldn’t stand to part with, reckon.”

“Good. We should ride tonight. Grab the mounts and head out, be back at the base within the week, let Morrison know… it’s all handled.”

Then, he looked at her— dirty grey hair tangled with red, a face devoid of all emotion. She had stopped a foot or so behind Jesse. Her legs were white and raw at the knees, butchered from kneeling, burnt from the exposure. There are older markings, layered and half-healed, darkened skin at one side of her face, silvery lines growing thin and then thick near her ankles, molten nebulas peaking out where her rags ended.

She waited. Wordless.

Finally, Gabriel addressed her, finding his voice stiff and unwilling to mold itself into some semblance of tact. “You got somewhere to go to?”

She jerked to attention, though the motion was small and self condensed. She tightened; moved her face up an inch as if to look him in the eye, but stopped halfway, flushed.

“No.” The syllable creaked.

He hesitated, did not meet Jesse’s stare. “No folks waiting for you? Cousins? Neighbors?”

“No.” The girl licked her lips, ducked her head down and quickly added: “Sir.”

A thick, throbbing pause, one that pressed against the ears and scrambled the brain, silence taken and amplified. His chest ached in a way he was not accustomed to, one that had nothing to do with wounds or contusions, split skin, firsthand trauma. He did not show it.

Rearranging his stance, he pressed on. “What’s your name?”

There is an uncomfortable moment where she shrugged, as if the question had not occurred to her. She spoke quietly and rehearsed, accent wavering. “You can call me whatever pleases you, sir.”

Oh, and _that_ won’t stand. 

“Not what I asked,” Gabriel said, stepping forward, _closer_ , for reasons he could not make heads or tails of. He could see the way the skin clung to her collar, hugged the bones and ridged cartilage. Her soles were dirty and burned. 

It happened in an instant— he moves less than a foot forward, and she retreats, backs herself into the nearest wall and makes a noise so fragile it hurt to listen to, folding forward and then down. Her features pinch, arms coming to hide her face. She slides down the wall and _braces_ , and it’s worse than any battle scar, any drawn-out stitches or ugly stigma. It freezes him solid. Turns him to stone.

He stopped. Listened as Jesse sucked in a breath.

Her eyes lingered at his hand, where he gripped the cane, the one that had struck down; had made her bleed. And all at once he felt cruel, inhuman, _feral_. 

A blind flash of adrenaline seized him, and without much thought he turned, brought up his knee, and broke the engraved ivory over it with enough force to bruise bone. He didn’t care. The snap echoed between the houses and rattled up his spine. After it was finished, he threw one half down the street and the next into the gutter, where it rolled between the dead flowers and waterlogged trash. 

Without a pause he reached into his pouch, pulled out a flask. Lowering himself on his ankles, he offered it to her quickly as to not lose his resolve.

“Water,” he explained, extending the canteen only halfway between them.

She stared through the crook of her arm, nerves shot, still pressing herself into the sandstone backing like something wounded and ready to be eaten alive. He watched her breathe, shallow, rapid. Watched as the light continued to slant in across face in a crooked line, ribs pressed against her pitiful excuse of a shirt.

He waited, just barely patient. Painfully aware of the sharpshooter eyeing him from a few yards away, hazel eyes pressing into the back of his neck, prodding. Gabriel was never soft, was never tender, they both knew; both resigned themselves to believe.

Time passed. Thirst won out. Carefully, as if afraid his hand would burst suddenly into flame, the girl reached out from her self-made knot, brushed her fingers across the flask, confused. He pushed it into her palm, withdrew as she brought it in close and stared, first at the open rim, then at him. Still so obviously ready for torment, trickery. 

After sniffing the opening she brought it gingerly to her lips, tilted the waterskin back ever so slightly and sipped, gaze still fixed on the man before her. She swallowed once, deep and savoring. Quickly after, she brought the item away, held it out towards him. The arm was thin. White enough to see the veins, blue and narrow. 

He shook his head— motioned with an empty, uncoiled hand. “It’s okay. Go on.”

She hesitated, looked down to weight her odds. It didn’t take long. Before he could blink she had brought the skin back to her mouth and began to drink so fast a good deal of water escaped down her chin, barely stopping to breathe, groaning as the liquid soothed its way down her throat. She held on with two hands, eyes sliding shut.

Nodding, Gabriel sighed, resigned himself to sit there on the ground across from her, pressing his face into one hand. 

There were no answers. None that made sense, anyways.

Jesse hovered, eventually squatted down to join them, arms braces at his knees and wrists hanging limp, fixing him with a stare so knowing it took but a moment to convey. None of them would be left here— none of them would come _back._

“Listen,” Jesse said, turning to regard the girl with that special grin he saved for emergencies, watching as she finished her drink and slumped back. “I’m Jesse. That’s Gabe. I know this is scary, and I know we’re strangers, but we’re not going to hurt you. I swear. We’re going to get you out of here, right now.”

She listened, though the words hardly seemed to reach her. There was no reply, no acknowledgment, just the flask being lowered to her lap and her fingers digging into the leather, kneading the material knuckle by knuckle.

“Is that okay?”

She shrugged, shoulders barely lifting. 

The men locked eyes, listless, unarmed for this. Jesse extended a hand towards her, though she didn’t so much as look at it.

“Do you own me?” she asked, voice renewed from the watering, tone tied down with apathy, acceptance. She lifted an arm to touch the damp spot at her hairline, not wincing, withdrawn so far into herself she didn’t seem to mind what happened next, what new collision she would find herself thrown against, broken over. Jesse’s fingers curled, withered. He shook his head, but Gabriel got the word out first.

“No.” 

She closed her mouth, lifted her gaze just enough to see him there, leveled and honest.

“And no one ever will,” he said, quieter, holding her stare. The promise does not ask permission. It comes out his mouth before he can even put the words together and remind himself of what they mean, the taste of them foreign in his mouth, shaped strangely. He ignores Jesse’s fond glance, the sun beginning to burn at his cheek, the gulls crying from their soiled perch. 

The girl pressed her lips together, let her brows come together and pinch. The air is audible rising from her lungs. Her hair shifts, is brushed hurriedly behind one ear as she lowers her face and thinks, dazed, delicate, considering.

“Okay,” she said eventually, pausing afterward, on the brink of disbelief. Her head turns further, afraid to look any of them in the eye. “Angela.”

“Your name?”

A pause, a minute nod followed by a rigid composure, as if she had done something wrong, had admitted some crime or sin. She waits, expecting vengeance.

It did not arrive. 

Gabriel feels the air come and go, rise and fall in the cage of his chest, and he nods— to what, he’s not sure. But it convinces him to stand. To brush the sand from his knees and watch as Jesse sheds his cape— old and tattered and unapologetically _red_ — and steps closer to the girl called Angela, lowering the fabric across her shoulders. She didn’t move as it draped down to her knees. 

“Sorry ‘bout the smell,” he said, gentle as he tied the sash secure at her collar, less than perfect but still affording some sense of modesty. “We’ll find you somethin’ better before we head out, promise.”

She stared at him, stunned. Shakes her head weakly as if to appease him, agreeable in her demoted mannerism, running a hand across the tough material and tugging it tighter, distracting herself with the patterns, the tobacco stains.

He helped her stand, even offered to carry her, though the idea seemed somewhere between alien and nightmarish to the girl as she shook her head, flustered. Her shadow was doubled, now, the cape hanging like a sheet from her shoulders, uneven. She didn’t seem to mind.

Gabriel looked from her, to Jesse, to the empty street before them. He knew tonight they would leave, traverse the expanse of sand and frigid winds, make camp sometime before morning and sleep— but every plan after that was a dead-end. He had stumbled into new waters. There was no protocol for this.

“Come on,” he said, nodding towards the road, patient as the girl regained her balance and followed. She stayed a foot behind Jesse, pinching the cloak, holding tight the empty canteen, as if worried they’d soon be ripped from her. 

The commotion in his chest redoubled— warm and wrapped around every rib, pulsing like something coming awake, equal parts painful and sobering. He let it spread. Let it seep into every corner of him, every dark and disillusioned cranny, forgetting about what he was returning to, who awaited him there with crossed arms and an expectant frown. Maybe this was superficial. Adrenaline. Pure sensationalism. But, to hell with it, he’d done worse for less, had killed men only a little bit farther gone than himself with no reservations or regrets, and if Jack wanted a fight after all of it, Gabriel would give one to him. He wasn’t leaving anyone here. Wasn’t coming back unless it was for war or worse.

They walked. The light grew pink and soft. Gabriel led and listened as Jesse spoke, asked questions that often yielded no response, filling the silence with a couple jokes and gentle conversation. The girl near him nodded, shrugged, made vague gestures with her hands. They were small and just barely steady. 

No answers. None but _Angela_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love me some medieval AU hurt/comfort.
> 
> this was... refreshing to write? as strange as that sounds. it helped get me out of my head, and kept me from torturing myself over every word. this was a lot more free-formed and less strict when it came to pacing or quality in comparison to my other fics. still, i really hope you guys enjoyed, even if it was different than my usual stuff. i'm trying to find a healthier writing routine, both for public and personal work, and i'd love to know your thoughts on the outcome.
> 
> thank you all so much for reading! i'm thinking of continuing this and using it as practice for quicker, more focused writing, if others were interested in reading more. what do you think? 
> 
> as always, cheers!


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://pin.it/btn4mdow6ta2wu
> 
> that's it that's the note.
> 
> (also, because i didn't say it explicitly before, This is a mega-AU. this is nothing close to actual OW lore/canon. just a disclaimer!)
> 
> a special thank you to Humboldt_Hag and Kaisdey for the reviews. happy reading.

It was a mistake.

Not one she had made out of spite or some long-harbored rebellion, a reserve of bravery kept close and bottled— there was little of that left in her, these days. It was more of a slip, a breach of clarity. The man clad in steel and boiled leather had asked, civil, backlit by the evening haze and standing at nearly twice her height, so obviously ignorant of the customs here. She was obligated to reply. Even if the Masters had tried for so long to rob her of the answer.

It was the first thing they took from her. It was the first thing they took from everyone, she had come to learn as the months passed and the nights grew colder. Not dignity, not modesty, not the will to resist or run, as so many did in the beginning. Things like that could afford to be whittled down with time. Tortured into obscurity. A _name_ , though— an idea that you existed before they caught you, stuffed you in a cage and called you a number— no, that must be nipped in the bud, they had explained, helpfully. It was dangerous. Misleading.

But he had asked— and after a poor attempt to remember her lines, she had yielded: _Angela._

She had not said her own name for months, since late summer of last year, back before she had entered Glaswren and was planted in a cell to sit still and grow. Since she had spent all those nights beneath constellations she struggled to make sense of, huddled next to strangers, learning the King’s Speech through osmosis as they whispered to one another, motioned vaguely with chained hands. Since they left the familiar mountains behind and traded their snow-swept peaks for the cruel, uncaring heat of the Swallow. 

Since Thea. 

She bit her lip. Put the memory out of mind.

Now, she stood patient in the shade of the city stables, fingers folded before her, ever conscious of the puddle-green eyes boring into one side of her face. Her and him were alone here, their silence broken by the occasional nagging of horses and clattering of shoed hooves, a boy a couple stalls down working a rake through the layered hay. The larger man, Gabriel, had left them not long ago, claiming to be back soon with mounts. She did not ask how she would accompany them— a calloused, cold part of herself had expected to walk beside the steeds, on foot. It would not be the first time.

“So,” Jesse started, as he had been prone to when the quiet got too long for his liking, grasping for anything to fill the void. “You’re not from around here either, then.”

Despite the circumstances, his voice was soft, kissed with a drawling accent she had never heard before. The syllables stretched and folded into one another as he leaned a shoulder against the threshold, staring at her, summoning a smile.

She swallowed, forced her eyes to fall back to her feet. They were red on the undersides, the heels calloused, the arches bruised. “No, sir.”

He hummed. The sash he had given her an hour prior hung heavy at her shoulders, the material thick and richly dyed, engraved with yellow patterns near the hems. She found herself clutching at the ends of it, savoring the rough, worn texture, the way it shielded her from the heat of the sun and straying eyes, the first scrap of privacy she’d been afforded for awhile. The waterskin was there, too; held carefully beneath one arm. She reminded herself constantly of its existence, recited mentally the way she should return it to its proper owner. Thank him. Bow low. Avoid the eyes.

“Figured. I was born way west of here, cross the Shared Sea. Lil’ town called _Coyote_ , hand to god. Not much out there ‘cept prairie and pompous bast—”

He stopped, then. Took on a thoughtful look before swallowing the word back, face flushing as he replaced it with: “People.”  


She shook her head in the affirmative, confused why he was telling her this, what she was supposed to make of it. Her head throbbed, though she did not move to touch where the blood had clotted and dried. 

Jesse waited, realized she had nothing for him. He cleared his throat, raised a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed there, conflicted. “What about you? Where’d you grow up?”

Her jaw creaked closed. She felt as her nails dug into one arm beneath the sash, hard enough to draw tears, maybe blood. Things like this were kept close— the memory of her mother painting by the shoreline, the soft touch of a hand against her cheek. It’s all that was left. She would not share it, watch it be dragged out and tarnished.

“North,” she said, quietly. “Sir.”

“‘Could call me Jesse, if you’d like.”

Another show of ignorance, a blind blow to everything she had been conditioned to expect. She dipped her head gently, bit down on her teeth when the motion caused black shapes to flash at the back of her eyes. Her shoulders ached. She’d be useless for lifting anything in the coming week, she knew, already wondering what healing herbs grew where they were heading, if she’d recognize any of them from her books. Poppies, willow, cat’s claw— did they even exist, west of home? Would she ever see them again?

A loud snort jerked her back to her senses, the ground suddenly shaking beneath her feet. She turned immediately, heart pounding as the horse in the nearest stable raised onto its back legs and kicked, mane flying as it came down, taut muscles flexing at its flank. It grumbled, annoyed, long neck bristling with every caged step.

Angela backed away so fast she felt herself bump into Jesse, who raised his hands, calm as could be.

_“Entschuldigung—_ I-I’m so sorry,” she said, stepping away to bow slightly, the adrenaline surging needlessly through her body. Her hands were shaking. She forced them both into fists, tried to find steadiness. 

“No harm done,” promised the man, who did not move to strike her, to grab her and shove, the scruff on his chin moving as he smiled. “You alright? The poor thing’s just antsy, won’t hurt you none.”

After a long, tense pause, she felt herself nodding, slowly rightening her frame when it was clear he had no interest in that formality, either. “… Yes, I— I apologize, I’m not used to… them.”

“Horses?” Jesse laughed, then, reaching up for something at his hairline only to end up patting at nothing, the familiar motion fizzling out. “Hell, I get them better than people, sometimes. Was taught to ride before I could even walk. I’ve had Senua since… saints, it’s gotta be seven years now,” he said, pleased at the thought.

She nodded, eager to show her understanding. “Senua is your steed, sir?”

“She is. You’ll meet her, once Gabe decides to stop tormenting the stablehand over fees. Or whatever else he’s decided to brood over.”

Again, the nearby animal whined, a single hoof scratching against the ground as its ears flickered backwards, the brown-black coating brushed to a shine, silver shoes hammered to the bottom of each limb. The horse’s chest came up against the gate, which rattled in its hinges, held firm.

Despite herself, Angela stepped further back, until Jesse stood between herself and the creature. Horses were obscure on the north side of the Heilig Mountains, where she had been raised— she had only seen them after being taken, watched through the metal bars of the wagon as a pair of stallions tugged her and a dozen others along, weighed down with tack and supplies. She was not permitted near them. It was one of the few rules she had no interest in breaking. 

Jesse watched her retreat, intrigued. To her relief, he did not make a move to stop her. 

“Sorry,” she said again, though she wasn’t sure what for.

He shook his head, face changing somehow, the angle of his grin wearing thin. “Don’t need to be afraid.”

She dipped her head. Forced her hands not to stray towards her wrists, the banded bruises there stinging every time they brushed up against the fabric. The noise had jumpstarted her pulse, triggered some instinctual reflex where she could not help but eye the nearest wall, feel the savage urge to press herself against it, banish any blindspots. She refrained, barely. 

_Breathe. Nobody likes a coward._

“Yes, sir.”

The words were wrong, somehow. She watched as Jesse turned himself a degree to consider her more clearly, letting his arms drop from where they once folded against his chest, sinewy and strong. Red-flags, alarm bells bleating, all her limbs going cold as the blood was brought back to her chest, kept there for safekeeping. He frowned as she went stiff, but only for a moment. Then, without preface, he turned from her, went walking straight for the stall where the wild steed still bucked, its lips pulled back as the man approached. His boots chimed as he went, the metalwork a calm, constant rhythm until he stopped a foot from the gate.

Confused, she watched, not daring to close the distance.

Jesse considered the horse. Didn’t so much as flinch when it stomped its hooves to the ground and gave a warning nip, its teeth yellow-white and powerful enough to remove skin from bone, if it were so inclined.

“I see you,” he remarked after all the fanfare, so obviously unmoved by it. “Get it all out, big guy.”

The creature snorted, as if it took offense. It rammed the door to its stable once more, a terrible clashing sound bouncing about the space, sending Angela a step back despite Jesse’s calm, patient stance. Down the end of the way, the worker paused with his rake, stuck his head out to find them.

“I wouldn’t try and get familiar,” the young man warned, wiping at his brow with the back of one tanned hand. “Feydak don’t take too friendly to most folk, these days— mind those hands, now.”

Feydak himself grunted in agreement, long tail snapping from side to side, standing tall enough to brush the rafters when it raised itself again to dance on two legs. Jesse just shrugged.

“‘You say so. I’ll play my cards the same, if you don’t mind.”

The worker just made some motion with his hands, noncommittal, laughing without a hint of humor. “Not my fingers.”

Protest bubbled up in the girl’s chest as she watched Jesse step closer, eying the animal up from its glossy hooves to its colorless eyes, smiling meekly as the stallion stuck out its neck to bare its teeth into a sneer. The man could have easily reached out to touch it, then— just as easily as the horse could have stretched a quarter foot further and bit down on his nose.

The words came before she could corral them back down her throat, where they belonged. “Sir, I think…”

“You’re scaring a friend of mine,” he said, not turning his gaze from the horse, voice leveled and amenable. He didn’t move as Feydak snorted, inched his wrinkled snout forward. “What’s got you so hot and bothered, huh?”

He reached into his satchel, beside the engraved hilt of his flintlock. Took his time rummaging around as the large, heavily boned face of Feydak came closer, ears slicked back, shoulders rippling as a low hum rumbled its way into the stables. Angela felt her blood go cold, panic rising with its familiar wave of nausea. What was he doing? Why wouldn’t she _look away?_

Then, pleased, Jesse produced a slip of silk, in which a rice cake had been folded into, half-eaten and more than a little crumbled. A dry, salty aroma filled the air.

Without further convincing, the horse fell quiet.

The man grinned, wide and white and full of small victories, something that she had not seen in her whole year of captivity within these walls. It was comforting, somehow. Like a sunrise breaking over a familiar horizon. “Oh? Was it something I said?”

And in the barest possible moment, the atmosphere turned inside out, no longer a stand-off or stare-down. The stallion cocked its head; rearranged its legs in a timid, reassessing fashion, nostrils flaring as it looked from the treat to the man who held it, almost accusing in its mannerism. It whinnied, sneezed. C _heater_.

Breaking off a piece, Jesse offered it to the horse with a flat palm, resting his free hand at his hip. No hesitation. No fear. Angela watched as the creature shook itself and bent forward, the anxiety in her chest turning from an ache to a piercing throb. But, before she could blink, the food was gone, being ground to a fine dust between Feydak’s jaw, who withdrew into his stall after accepting the peace offering, defeated, though not all that bitter about it.

Jesse huffed, watching with knowing eyes. “There you are. Big baby.”

The horse ignored him, mane rippling as it arced down towards the water trough. 

“H-How…” She stopped herself immediately, bit her tongue until it hurt, until there was once again the copper-tin taste of blood on her palate. The grip on her own wrist tightened. Curiosity and awe drowned out by hindsight.

But it was enough, the shaking word turning Jesse around without struggle, sending the corners of his smile even higher. He shrugged, pleased with his performance. Stared at her so kindly it summoned a fresh wave of vertigo. 

“Told you, darlin’. Can read a horse like Gabe reads dusty tombs, front and back.” He reached out to brush his hand over the steed’s flank, unconcerned when it grunted in dejected acceptance, tail switching. With the other arm, he reached out, as if to summon her closer. “Here— come on, he won’t bite.”

The idea made her feel sick. If she had eaten anything today, she would have worried about it escaping back up her throat at the thought of surrendering herself to touch, to _proximity_. She stepped out anyway, automated and behaved, ever-obedient. He smelled of sweat and blackpowder— an acrid, burnt flavor that she had recognized clinging to the sash she wore, utterly foreign. He waited as she approached slowly, trailing her feet across the sand and hay, stopping just out of range.

She tried not to shake as his fingers brushed her bare shoulder. They were calloused and hard and hesitant, noting her reluctance, not forcing her in any direction.

“Angela,” he said, and it _hit_ her— drove the air out of her lungs— made her sway. Her name in someone else mouth. Her name here in this place, digging itself out of a self-made grave, staggering back to life. Her name said so softly, as if the person speaking was aware of its fragility, its tenuous permission to hold meaning. “Want to pet him?”

_No._

“If you’d like, sir.”

“Jesse,” he reminded, his hold on her remaining gentle even though his grin wavered. “You don’t have to.”

Tangling her fingers together, she looked up at the Feydak, who had straightened and begun sniffing at the man’s hair, seemingly debating if it could serve as another snack. Its exposed neck was out of reach, unless she stood on her toes and strained. Her lips twisted. Despite it all, she could not force her legs to step closer, her hands to reach out and beckon. Jesse stayed beside her, waiting, and she understood his patience was a gift she should not take lightly, should not challenge or exploit.

“How… how should I…” She trailed off, looking up at where the horse loomed over her.

“Ain’t no science to it,” he promised, so obviously pleased to come to her aid, the space between them dwindling. She felt his heat, his breath. Felt herself go blank and hollow. “Give me your hand, let me show you. Nice an’ slow.”

She let herself be moved, let Jesse’s touch wrap around her wrist, just above the bruises, and guide her arm out. No protest followed. The girl turned herself limp and pliable, playing complacent, like she was trained. That is, of course, until the stiffness in her shoulder flared up, sent white-hot ribbons of pain down her spine and drove her breath into a gasp, the ache sinking into her like a set of claws. Her muscles locked, joints burning from their time tied up and restricted. Eyes slamming shut, she turned her face, bit down on her teeth to keep from crying out.

It was a mercy when Jesse stopped, the motion halted. “What’s wrong?” he asked, confused. 

She shook her head frantically, tried to stay calm, behaved. _Breathe_. “Nothing.”

He did not move her further; did not let her go. “Am I hurting you?”

_Yes— gott—_

“It’s okay,” she managed, jaw still clenched as more spots intruded into her vision, light erupting in her peripheries. Then, as if it would shield her from rebuke: “You’re allowed.” 

His hand retreats as if singed, tucking itself out of sight. Her arm dropped, the pain banished back to a low hum at the base of her skull as her shoulder went lax, the breath exiting ragged out from her lungs, the floor spinning as the torture subsided. The limb tingled and throbbed, her fingers now numb.

Slowly, she opened her eyes all the way. Found Feydak staring at her, still so far above, strange face tilted and poised. His ears swiveled. She swallowed, turned to find Jesse, who to her confusion had stepped back and traded his grin for a grimace— his hands were open and hovering aimlessly, eyes robbed of all mirth. He had turned serious. Vexed. She shrunk away.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop.” He said the word so savagely a part of her caught fire, anxiety welling up like a blight, crawling up her chest and settling, heavily, atop her airway. She felt the stable door press into her spine, the gate bouncing in its hinges. She obliged. Said nothing.

Jesse’s mouth opened and closed, taking a step forward and then changing his mind, making no real progress either way. There was effort in every exhale, as if he were trying to compose himself. But she could seem him tremble; could see the unsteadiness work its way up his arms, the cords to his throat flexing as he combed through the words, remembered how to say them, how to temper them back so they did not erupt like gunfire. Finger by finger, he morphed one hand into a fist.

“I’m allowed,” he echoed, tuneless. She waited and chanced no reply. “What does that mean?”

She stumbled, confused, afraid. Her eyes darted from the man to the exit, though a part of her knew she’d never make it, and even if she did, that there was nowhere to go. “It— It— I don’t… it’s what they tell you.”

“Who?” he demanded.

“The people with the papers. With the keys. The— Masters.”

“That prick with the _cane?”_

He said it with such venom. Robbed of all softness, all semblance of sympathy. He was going to hurt her. It had not been an hour, and already she had crossed a line, undone a knot, bloodied the waters. She tried to reply, but the words were too weak, muddled with her first language, struggling to take form. They died on her tongue. She did not try again.

He paced, not going far, fumbling with his indignation. He stayed silent and chewed on the words instead of spitting them out at her, taking his time to indulge, to let it all boil over. His eyes swept over the floor to the barren threshold, where the world was growing cool and quiet. Then, reluctant, they dragged themselves to stare at her. 

She dropped her gaze and gathered her hands. Prayed quickly to the gods her mother had believed in, though they had not answered before, and, a keen part of her knew, would not start now.

“I’m sorry.” Jesse said it low and ashamed. She listened, exhaustion mixing with the rush of adrenaline, dulling the colors and skewing the light. Blinking, she nodded.

His footsteps grew louder, one by one, the spurs on his boots clinking. “Angela, I don’t know anything about this place. I don’t know anything about you. But no one is _permitted_ to lay a hand on you from now on, as long as I have something to say about it.”

“No one except you,” she agreed, dazed. “Not unless I do something bad.”

His silence deepens. He brews in it, and she waits, eyes fixed to her feet. 

There is the sound of shifting leather, of knees bending and ankles rolling out as Jesse lowered himself to her, his shadow shrinking and transforming as he reached forward with both arms. His hands came into view. They touched her on either cheek, and she could not help the noise that shuttered out from her chest, the surge of fear that struck her stiff and coaxed her eyes shut. She waited, pinched and braced. Waited even as the moments passed, bleeding into minutes, her heart beating wildly as the contact did not rescind or retaliate, but rather lingered, like a sunburn.

Nothing happened. She readied herself for it, for anything, _everything_ — but there was only the stillness of them, the sound of horses circling in their stalls. The hands on her face were… gentle. Steady. 

“I never meant to hurt you.”

Jesse’s voice was clear, impossibly close, ringing like the chapel bells back home; a memory she forgot she had. For one reason or another, it convinced her to open her eyes and find him, his face only a foot away, all tanned skin and sharp lines and split brows. But he was _tender_ — careful. As if he was worried he could shatter her will by sheer force of will. 

“You are not going to be punished. You did nothing wrong. Do you understand?”

_No._

“No.”

She shouldn’t have said it, but it comes out anyway, honest, hoarse enough to pass for a whisper. None of this was how she was told it would be. Nothing was as simple, as bare-boned. Nothing as direct as _Be quiet_ or _Do as you're told_ or _Take it like a champ, kid_. 

Jesse lifted her chin, so she was forced to look him in the eye. In the light, the hazel hue had separated into green, earthen tones, a fleck of gold apparent in one iris like buried treasure. 

“Why are you afraid?” he asked.

She shook her head as much as she could, grimacing, her hands planted behind to steady herself against the gate. “I-I’m not, sir, please—”

“You’re trembling, sweetheart.”

He was right. Her legs rattled beneath her. She could feel her bottom lip ache and wobble. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

She wasn’t sure. Usually, she wasn’t asked. “You’re… angry.”

He smiled, then, though there was little joy in it, a stark contrast from earlier. His thumb moved at one side of her face, up and down, for reasons she could not fathom. But it stilled her. Let her think around the bursts of static and panic, the weight on her lungs lessening, her vision clearing at every corner.

“I’m not angry with you,” he promised, calm now, though still speaking low as if this were all a matter of privacy. She listened. Hyperaware of his touch, the way his voice traveled up his arms and rumbled against her cheeks. “I’m angry at the people who made you think any of this was okay. I’m angry and the people who tied a rope around your neck and auctioned you off like an animal. I’m angry I didn’t…”

He stopped, then. Trailed off as if it were best left unsaid. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. Neither is Gabriel. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

He drops his hands, and despite it all, she is both grateful and disappointed by their absence. Some long-dormant part of herself, primitive and unexplained, misses the contact— the promise of touch without torment, comfort without cost. She watched as the man leaned back on his ankles, the empty space rushing back in between them.

She doesn’t believe him. They both know. 

Regardless, Angela nodded afterwards, detached herself from the wooden gate one inch at a time until she was no longer pressed up against it— a show of faith, she hoped, however naively. She wanted to please him, though there was no answer as to why. Her skin buzzed where he had brushed it. Ached in a way that had nothing to do with bruises or cuts.

A snort, so loud she jumped back in surprise, every hair standing straight. She turned, bewildered, and found the dark face of Feydak bent down across from her own, sniffing thoughtfully. His mane fell down into his forehead, where a thin wisp of white marked him, crooked and thin like a bolt of lightning. The face was nearly half her height. Paralyzed, she could do nothing but watch as the horse brought itself closer and investigated her hands, curious, perhaps, to see if she had any salty treats at her disposal.

Behind her, Jesse hummed. 

“He likes you,” the man commented, sliding closer. “Reach up, right by his ear. No patting, just nice, easy strokes.”

Her mouth creaked opened and closed. She uncurled a single fist, though could not bring herself to move it. 

Jesse grunted. “Here.”

His hand was by hers once more, careful as anything, gently guiding it up towards the horse for a second time. They stopped well before her shoulder could give her any more grief, slowly finding their way behind one of Feydak’s ears, his short, brushed hair soft to the touch. She took a breath when her hand was pressed flush to the creature, eyes wide. It did not protest as her hand begun moving across its side, savoring the grain of its fur, the blooming warmth that laid beneath it.

“There you go,” Jesse said, moving away once she got into the rhythm. “See? Harmless. Just wants some affection, is all.”

Angela’s mouth was hanging, her arm seeming to move on its own accord as Feydak nuzzled closer, now graceful with his strength, pushing only enough to discourage her from stopping. He purred beneath her touch. Surprised, she found her fear slipping away faster than she had imagined possible, replaced by a splendid fondness that drove the doubt from her stance, admiring the way the light traversed across the horse’s neck, rippled out as she caressed it. He was strong beneath the skin. She could feel the muscles and tendons working, the impressive throb of life traveling out from the heart. It was mesmerizing. Reassuring in a way she could not find the proper words for, in her native tongue or otherwise.

Her free hand came up to join the first. Stepping closer, she redoubled her efforts, reaching up as far as she could, tangling her fingers into the black hair spilling out from the horse’s mane. She was repaid with a pleased whine— a giant, wet nose being pressed to her chest.

“Oh,” she whispered, looking down at the contact, not daring to stop. 

Feydak did not reply, but from behind there was the sound of Jesse rising, taking his time to walk beside her, where she could see that grin beginning to reclaim its territory across his face; smaller, but just as genuine. He rubbed the other side of the horse’s neck, quiet, no longer looking to fill the silence. 

She was grateful. 

They let the time passed in a drowsy, undemanding fashion. Angela did not try to measure it— she let herself go numb, pleasantly blissful to whatever waited just over the horizon, indulging in the feeling of Feydak’s hot breath against her side, taking care to keep tangles out of his hair. Despite his earlier bravado, the horse seemed calm. At one point he took to nipping thoughtfully at her sash, tugging her forward with no effort, her weight negligible. 

It made her laugh behind closed lips. A radiant, rose-colored sensation she had not been privy to for a long while.

“Good boy,” Jesse said, scratching rewardingly under the horse’s chin, sliding his eyes over towards her and taking pause. Then, as if it were a secret: “You got a nice smile.”

Her cheeks stung for a different reason, hot from this brand of attention, not knowing what to do with it. She had always tried to keep herself small since leaving Halden. Insignificant against a crowd. It was easier, then, to not be picked out and demoralized, given the sort of consideration that left marks or stretched her to exhaustion. Thea taught her that early, she remembered. _You are young. You will already be a favorite. Keep your head down, your voice soft, or it will be another reason to pick you over the rest._

_Pick me for what?_

She blinks hard and finds the girl there, freckles and dark hair, cool hands that were always skilled at finding their way into hers. Her eyes were black like stones from a river. They mirrored everything they found, considered them with a diligence that always reminded Angela of her father, as if they were trying to understand the inner workings of something so fundamental most did not so much as consider their existence. 

The image of her, however brief, shatters any chance at clinging to apathy. Angela looks away.

“Thank you, sir.”

The sound of Jesse stopping is an obvious lapse, Feydak bickering in protest as his touch went still and cold. She felt his stare like sunlight filtered through a prism, burning low and steady, and immediately, she knows— feels the understanding begin to collect and pool at the base of her throat, dangerous either way.

He waited; expecting. The girl shrunk, feigned ignorance for as long as she could manage, busying herself. It is a chore to gather up the resolve; to discard everything they had tried to teach her with a single sentence, a single _word_. But she’d do it. If it meant this would not end, that she would not be woken up tomorrow by a new stranger and dragged off to another block, another cell, another night of sleeping on concrete. If it meant any of this was real— was meant to last. She’d do anything.

“Thank you,” Angela echoed, nearly inaudible. “Jesse.”

She did not need to look up to know he is smiling. She could hear it in his voice, stained bright with victory, euphoria. 

“Don’t mention it.”

Something had changed. They went back to their posts, running their fingers through the silky hide, but Angela could not bring herself to focus. The name stuck to her tongue. She was unable to rid herself of the taste, of the way it felt slipping between her lips out into a spoken word, of the craving, however hopeful, to say it again soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i know horses don't purr i didn't mean i literally i promise.
> 
> i really forced myself to just sit and write this while recovering from minor surgery, trapped in bed, trying not to linger too long on the little things. no overhauls or massive revisions. just conditioning myself to focus and let the text flow, however reluctantly.
> 
> thank you for reading. i'll try and get working on what comes next soon-- any reviews would be a help! i've already done a fair bit of world-building, including a vague world map and regional diagrams. maybe illl put a link to one or two, as stuff continues. if that's something you guys are even interested in.
> 
> cheers!


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